Vampire II: Damnation and Desire
by LC
Summary: Unofficial sequel to Vampire (1979 TV-movie). Vampire was a pilot for a series, but didn't make it so the story was left open-ended. Vampire II is set 20 years later. Rated PG13 for violent content.
1. Prologue

_San Francisco 1999_

  
  


**Prologue**

  
  


The Vampire willed himself into the air and his body rose as if it had no more weight or substance than a feather. He held his breath as he soared over treetops and higher still over manmade skyscrapers until he was surrounded by twinkling lights--the cityscape beneath him, the starscape overhead. He let out his breath in a rush. 

The ability to fly had been the last of his powers to return after he had been released from the caved-in basement of the Heidecker estate twenty years before. He frowned into the night as he remembered his race with the dawn after Nicole arranged his release from jail. He had run through the streets like a wild animal, the rays of the rising sun burning him through his clothing by the time he reached his Nob Hill apartment and the coffin that awaited him behind the secret panel. 

He hadn't seen Nicole in twenty years and, idly, he wondered where she was at this moment. Nicole DeCamp had been too easy while Andrea Parker had been too difficult. As weak as he had been after his unintentional 40-year interment, it had taken every ounce of his strength to keep Andrea enthralled. Other powers had come to him quickly, but flying had taken a few years. Twenty years ago, he had been little better than a fledgling. 

Twenty years ago tonight... 

He had only to think of a destination and he soon found himself there. Now, he thought of dear Leslie and within minutes he hovered above her final resting place. Far below him headstones lined up in neat rows. He closed his eyes and envied the dead their peace. _Leslie_, he thought, wondering if there was any way to reach her in the beyond, _don't be angry. You are much better off where you are than you would have been with me._

The screeching of the iron cemetery gates made him open his eyes. He glided closer and landed silently in a tree where he had a clear view of Leslie's grave. A familiar form made its way from the gate. Rawlins! 

The past twenty years had not been kind to John Rawlins. He moved like an old man. He was, after all, in his sixties now. Rawlins found the grave and stood, murmuring to his long-dead wife. Then he knelt by the headstone. After a long while, a woman approached and helped Rawlins to his feet. 

He probed their minds enough to find the information he sought, but not enough to alert them to his presence. When she had helped Rawlins to the car and they drove away, he once more took flight into the night sky. 

It was time to reacquaint himself with the Rawlins family.


	2. Act I

**Act I**

  
  


John Rawlins stood amidst the deepest shadows in front of the cemetery gates. The susurration of the wind high in the trees kept time with the erratic beating of his heart. His breath came in short bursts of mist that dissipated quickly like the ghosts of long-forgotten dreams. 

Deep in an outer pocket of his overcoat, his hand clenched a vial of holy water. He also carried a wooden stake--oak, as legend said it should be--within an inner pocket. The silver cross around his neck was no longer ice-cold but warmed to body temperature lying next to his skin. 

His baby sister Christina thought him mad. If she had seen the tools he brought, she would have driven him to Bay Psychiatric instead of the cemetery. But Chrissy hadn't witnessed the horror of twenty years ago. She patiently listened to his ravings. She didn't ridicule but she didn't _believe_. He couldn't blame her. He could hardly believe either when he'd entered that apartment and seen what lay behind the sliding panel. 

John looked up at the wrought iron gates. Chrissy had tried to persuade him to wait until morning, but he had insisted. Tonight. _Night_. The murderer of his wife might return here on this anniversary. 

_I have returned_, John thought miserably. Wasn't _he_ the one who ended the life of his beloved Leslie? 

Tears blurred his vision. He wiped at them with his free hand, reluctant to release the vial for an instant. He couldn't let himself think that way. He had freed Leslie's soul, not condemned her. Voytek had killed her and damned her. _Voytek_ was the murderer. He had to remember that. 

He found no comfort in the truth. 

If he didn't go in soon, Chris would try to talk him into leaving. He would let her. If he didn't enter the cemetery right now, he never would. He lay his hand on the cold iron latch and the echo of the horrendous screech rang in his ears long after the actual sound died away. He stepped into darker shadows. 

The walk seemed longer than the night he and Harry carried Leslie's body to rebury her after--yes, after he had driven a stake into her heart. They had tracked one of Voytek's coffins to an abandoned theater. John had been shocked to discover Leslie instead of Voytek. 

She lay against the white satin as if she were asleep. No markings on her creamy skin to show where Voytek had ravaged her. As Harry Kilcoyne urged him to do what he must, Leslie opened her eyes and taunted him with his own words: "Oh, babe. I love you so much. I love you more than life." She reached up and caressed his cheek. "I miss you so much. My love..." Her voice was soft and sweet and he wanted to gather her into his arms. Her death was a mistake, after all! 

Then Harry had shouted and Leslie hissed like a demon. He _knew_ she was no longer his beloved. He'd done what he had to--but he couldn't make Chris understand. She thought he had listened to the ravings of an old man and dreamed it up. 

Lost in his thoughts, he was upon the gravesite before he knew it. Here in the open, there was enough starlight to see the headstone: Leslie Ann Rawlins. Beneath the dates of her birth and death: Beloved wife. 

Although tears had clouded his eyes earlier, he couldn't summon them now. Not for lack of grief. He remembered the first night he had visited Harry's apartment. "Oh God, I miss my wife!" he had cried out in anger and frustration. Harry told him not enough time had passed. Wasn't twenty years enough? He missed her today as much as he had then. 

"Well, Rawlins," he whispered as he fell to his knees on the smooth carpet of grass. "What Voytek said, is it true? Did you want it?" 

As soon as he voiced the words, John realized how much the question meant to him, and how desperately he needed an answer. In the psychiatric hospital, Voytek had loomed over him as he lay on his cot. When John looked into the depths of blue eyes turned black, he was almost lost himself. If Harry hadn't come . . . 

"We'd be here together, wouldn't we? And the past twenty years would be a blink in our eternity." 

John rested his head against the marble stone and closed his eyes. He should stay alert in case Voytek did return this night. He also recognized the futility of it. Voytek was long gone. 

"We tried, Rawlins. We did try. Harry and I spent years searching for any trace of Voytek. Harry used up most of his retirement fund and I led the company into bankruptcy and we never found out where Voytek fled to that night. Poor Harry." John sighed deeply. "He got old. Five or six years ago, he had some health problems and couldn't go on. He died last year. And I . . . sometimes I don't want to go on either." 

John didn't know how long he sat beside the grave before Chris came and led him away. The cold and the emotional drain left him staggering and he had to lean on Chris as they walked back to the car. His hand never left the vial in his pocket. 

**********************

Chris was loath to leave her brother, but she had to get away by herself for awhile. She gave him a pill prescribed by the doctor to help him relax, then put him to bed. Before he drifted off, she told him she was going out. 

"No, Chrissy, not tonight!" he implored. 

Long ago, when she was much younger, she had been amused by his calling her Chrissy. Now, the poignant nickname only called attention to how dependent upon her he had become. 

"I won't be gone long, I promise," she said and kissed his forehead. "I'll wait until you've fallen asleep." 

John tried to stay awake and talk her out of it, but his own exhaustion and the tranquilizer at last took effect. She slipped away without disturbing him. 

As she stepped back out into the chill night air, she thought she must be the one who was mad. Yet, a quiet drive all by herself sounded like what she needed to untie the knots in her nerves. She settled behind the wheel and drove aimlessly over the rolling streets. 

Six months before, John's oldest friend Christopher Bell had contacted Chris about her brother's deteriorating health. Chris' divorce settlement a few years ago had left her enough money so she didn't have to work and her twin daughters were grown and on their own. Nothing kept her from immediately flying to San Francisco. 

Chris found her brother in a seedy apartment in a bad part of town. Every room was filled with stacks of old books and crumbling newspapers. If she was shocked by his living conditions, she was completely horrified by his emaciated appearance. Chris rushed him to a doctor. 

Diagnosed with dehydration and malnutrition, John regained his strength in the hospital while Chris cleared out the apartment. She was puzzled by the cache of wooden stakes, silver crosses, and vials of water, but she packed them along with the books, discarding everything else. 

Chris had gone to Christopher Bell with her concerns and questions. Bell related the circumstances surrounding Leslie's death. In 1979 a serial killer stalked the area and Leslie had been one of many victims. Then Bell told her what John and ex-cop Harry Kilcoyne believed and Chris understood the significance of the items she had found in John's old apartment. 

Chris knew the idea of a _vampire_ involved in Leslie's death was incredible, but John and his friend seemed to have a valid reason to suspect Anton Voytek of somehow being involved. John had taken away his treasures and Voytek had threatened to reciprocate. Bell was present when Voytek voiced the threat. 

Chris asked if it was possible to see the original police records, and Bell made the arrangements with a friend in the department. They poured over the old files and found signatures and photos ruined. Voytek's prints had been corrupted long before the department started uploading their files into the computer system. Every shred of evidence that could be used to identify Anton Voytek had been obliterated. Bell called him a slick con man, and Chris had to agree. 

The deaths had been by exsanguination and, as she skimmed the reports, Chris noticed the difference in the killer's choice of victims before Leslie. Until her death, the murderer had chosen convicted felons and vagrants suspected of various crimes. The dregs of society . . . until he was allowed entrance into the Rawlins upscale home and drained a member of the upper echelon of the San Francisco community of every drop of blood. The next victim, while not as prestidigious as Leslie Rawlins, was a private detective and a very good friend of Harry Kilcoyne, explaining the connection between her brother and the retired cop. The abduction of Andrea Parker was not in the records, but Bell told her what John and Harry _claimed_ had occurred. 

Chris tried to locate John and Leslie's friend, Nicole DeCamp, but could find no trace of her. She tracked down Tom Parker who had gone to live with his father in Arizona twenty years before. She spoke with him briefly on the phone, but he wouldn't allow her to talk to his mother Andrea. "She isn't well," he said and refused to discuss anything connected with John, Harry Kilcoyne, or Anton Voytek. Every lead played out to a dead end. 

Chris gave up her futile endeavors and concentrated on her brother. She leased a spacious apartment in a nice neighborhood and brought him home. As she nursed him back to health, they got to know one another again. She learned he had a delightful dry wit that always made her laugh. The times she doubted his sanity was when he spoke of Leslie and his need to finish what Harry Kilcoyne and he had started so many years ago. Then Chris wished she'd thrown out the vampire books and paraphernalia with the rest of the trash. 

Under her care, John rapidly gained weight, filling in the gauntness of his cheeks. His bones no longer protruded through his skin, and his clothing fit him once again. The waxy pallor of his skin had been replaced by his natural olive complexion. John had always looked like a dark gypsy next to her paler Celtic coloring, but both had inherited the Rawlins black hair with only a few strands of silver to mark the passage of time. John was still frail, but so much healthier looking than when she'd first seen him. 

As he became stronger Chris showed him how to operate the computer she'd set up. She had hoped worldwide access to every subject imaginable would broaden his interests. He was fascinated by the equipment and quickly learned how to use it. Chris was dismayed to discover she had only handed him another tool in his unflagging search for Voytek. 

John scoured the internet and chat rooms for mention of "The Golden Vampire" from Heidenreich's work, the only text to mention the 700-year-old vampire. He bought books online, and packages began to arrive nearly every day. Early every morning he bought international newspapers and spent hours pouring over them looking for any mention of a series of murders similar to those committed in Bryant Park in 1939 and 1979. Anything to lead him to Voytek. 

Chris sighed and checked her watch as she turned down another street. She had been gone much longer than she planned. Then a coffeehouse caught her eye. Cafe latte was her downfall. She would go in for a quick cup then return home, she decided as she pulled the car into the parking lot. 

********************** 

A soothing instrumental played in the background of the dimly lit room as Chris removed her jacket and took a seat. She had chosen a table as far away as possible from everyone else. She wanted peace and quiet. A waitress took her order, and she settled back to wait. 

Mostly, she wanted peace for her brother. Vampires were legend and lore and myth, nothing more. She knew of the gothic scene where people _pretended_ to lead vampiric lifestyles to the point of consuming blood, but they didn't need it for survival. They didn't turn to dust if exposed to sunlight. How had that crazy old man conned her sensible brother into believing his wife's murderer was a vampire? 

On the other hand, how had every shred of proof of Voytek's existence been corrupted? The blurred photo, the smeared fingerprints, the stained signature. How had Voytek gotten into the police records and effectively wiped out any way to trace him? Or prove he was Voytek if he was ever caught again? 

Interesting questions, but her most pressing need now was to decide what to do about John. More doctors? Commit him? She closed her eyes and wished with all her heart that her brother was not insane. 

Suddenly, Chris jerked upright with the sensation she'd almost gone to sleep. Uneasiness crept through her as she tried to tell herself it had been a long, tiring evening and falling asleep was natural, but there was nothing natural about the feeling of being watched. 

Her eyes swept the room. A dozen or so patrons, grouped in twos and threes, occupied some of the tables. Except for one. He was seated alone and . . . he watched her. 

When he saw that she had noticed him, he nodded, a gentle tilt of his head. Chris sighed softly. He was attractive with a full head of white-blond hair and a charming smile. She'd kick herself later, but she was in no mood to strike up a conversation with a total stranger . . . no matter how handsome. 

Chris nodded curtly then dropped her eyes. She hadn't smiled. The waitress brought her cafe latte and Chris took a sip. John needed all her attention and energy now. When she had decided how to deal with her brother then she would consider smiling at strangely handsome men in dimly lit coffeehouses. 

She set the cup down and looked up and--he was right there, as if he'd been standing at her side all along. Startled, she glanced across the room at the empty table. She'd had no sense of his movement. 

He smiled down at her and Chris couldn't help it. She smiled back. _Stop it_, she scolded herself. _Don't encourage him._

"May I join you?" 

His voice was low, throbbing, soft, yet more than a whisper. The sound sent a small shiver through her. 

"No," she said. Then, "Yes, but I won't be here long." 

He was older, closer to John's age, but his deep penetrating blue eyes were far younger. He wore his overcoat draped from his shoulders like a cape. Something stirred in the back of her mind. Something John had said. Then it drifted out of her reach like a balloon cut loose from its mooring. Forget John a few moments. How long had it been since she'd had the attention of a male who wasn't a relative? 

"Neither will I," he said and slid into a chair, his overcoat never once threatening to slip from his shoulders. 

"Aren't you having anything?" Chris asked and took another sip of the latte. 

He shook his head. "I don't drink . . . coffee." 

Chris couldn't help but laugh. "I'm sorry but you are in a coffeehouse." 

He shrugged. "I met someone earlier. Business." 

None of her concern. Business or a lover. She'd never see this man again beyond these few minutes. Yet, she could almost imagine being taken in his arms, his lips trailing kisses along her cheek, her neck-- 

Her body jerked as if pulling her from sleep. Her hands were loosely wrapped around the cup and it rattled in the saucer, spilling over. 

"Are you all right?" he asked, but she detected amusement rather than concern on his face and in his voice. 

That little fantasy had seemed too real. She could almost feel the lingering pressure of his lips on her skin. She moved her hands away from the cup. 

"Yes. It's been a long day and I'm more tired than I thought." She rose and pulled on her jacket. 

He stood also. "May I see you out?" 

"No, I--Thank you but no," she stammered. She wanted him to walk her out and talk with her. Part of her needed to be with a man tonight, but the practical, sensible Rawlins within warned her to be cautious. As handsome and charismatic as he was, he was still a stranger. 

"Of course," he nodded and bowed slightly. "It's been a pleasure, Mrs. Delaney." 

Chris murmured good night. He took her hand briefly, and Chris thought he was going to bring it up to his lips. Instead, he let her go and smiled one last time. 

She had paid the clerk and was at the door before it occurred to her she had never told him her name. Uneasy, she stepped back into the sitting area and glanced around the room. He was gone. 

"Did you forget something?" a waitress asked. 

Chris shook her head and retraced her steps to the door. She hesitated. Should she call a cab to be safe? Or wait until others left so she wouldn't be alone? Indecisive, she bit her lip. No. He'd gone to the restroom, that's all. How did he know her name? Perhaps she had told him. She was exhausted and kept drifting off. She might have mentioned it. Well, she hoped she gave him her phone number as well. 

Chris pushed through the door and the blast of night air was colder than it had been earlier at the cemetery. Poor John. He'd never recovered from Leslie's death. Chris had repeatedly urged him to seek counseling, but John scoffed at the idea. Voytek, he insisted, had committed all the mutilations in '79, including Leslie, as well as those in '39. 

But John had described Voytek as 35 to 40 years old. If so, he hadn't been born in 1939. What else did John say . . . Voytek was tall, regal, sophisticated. He had long blond hair and dark blue eyes that turned black when-- 

Chris stopped short. She had just described the man in the coffeehouse! John had said--oh, yes, the _something_ that had floated out of her mind--he wore an overcoat like a cape. _It's not possible_, Chris thought. 

"Anything is possible," his asperous voice whispered in her ear.


	3. Act II

**Act II**

  
  


Startled, Chris cried out and stumbled away from him. In a macabre dance, he stepped with her, matching her move for move, as if he knew which direction her body would take when even she didn't know. She would have crumpled to the sidewalk had he not caught her up and pulled her close to his chest. She could hear the wild beating of his heart, imagined the blood rushing in and out, pounding through his veins. Blood, warm and thick, life-giving-- 

Everything John had ever said about Voytek raced through her mind. _Don't look into his eyes!_ She squeezed hers shut. 

"No," he whispered hoarsely and traced the curve of her cheek with a finger. "Don't look into my eyes." 

From deep inside a feral place Chris didn't know existed, a volcano of fierce desire welled and poured like lava throughout her entire being. The flow coursed along every nerve and synapses until it consumed her completely. She forgot who she was and where she was. She had only one thought, one need: the man who held her. She wrapped her arms around him tightly and drove her lips against his. 

"Anton," she moaned, "take me. Take me now!" 

She heard his laughter, haughty and mocking, and it was the sweetest sound she'd ever heard. She molded her aching body to his and accepted his kisses hungrily. 

Small animal noises sounded deep in her throat as his tongue plundered her mouth, then trailed wetly along her jaw, beneath her ear, down her neck. His lips lingered against her throbbing pulse. 

Chris wanted _more_ than the natural physical intimacy between a man and a woman. She craved something her shattered mind would not let her define. His teeth scraped over her skin and her body convulsed toward them. 

He laughed again and drew away. 

"No, Anton!" she cried out. 

As quickly as it came, the hot flow of desire receded to its secret caldera. Her body shook violently. Tears filled her eyes, then she was sobbing against his shoulder. Even in her torn condition, she felt the change in the way he held her. Not to control and restrain, but to comfort and console. 

"You don't have to look into my eyes to become enthralled, Christina," he murmured against her hair. 

Her mouth was hot and dry, but somehow she was able to speak. "Wh-What do you want?" 

"I want you to believe in me." 

"Why?" 

"I want you to understand." 

"Underst-stand what?" 

"And make your brother understand. About Leslie." 

Suddenly, he released her. If she hadn't been close enough to lean on the building for support, her weakness would have sent her to her hands and knees. She took several deep, shuddery breaths and did what John had warned against time and again: She looked into his eyes. 

His blue eyes had darkened to black and focused elsewhere, another plane or dimension. John's voice sounded in her mind: _Run while you can . . . _

"I will not harm you!" he snapped. 

A tremor moved through her. "Don't do--don't do _that_ again." 

"Enthrall you?" He closed his eyes and when they opened they had returned to blue. "You have my word. I merely wished to show you the powers I possess. I want you to believe, Christina." 

"I-I believe." 

"But you do not understand." 

She shook her head. 

"Understanding will come in time." 

He was gone and Chris blinked. She didn't think he had dematerialized, but she had detected no movement. One second he stood on the sidewalk, a solid imposing figure, and the next second . . . he simply was not there. 

Chris crouched against the wall for a long time, waiting for the tremors to subside. She didn't trust her legs to carry her weight. By the time she felt stable enough to push away, her teeth chattered. Her entire body shook with a chill deep inside her bones from the cold as well as the aftereffects of his preternatural enthrallment. 

Slowly, she walked to her car, got in, started the engine. She turned on the heat full-blast. Would she ever be warm again? Would she ever feel sane again? And John? What could she tell her brother? How could she explain that Voytek had contacted her? How could she tell him what had happened and how she'd felt? Then the thought struck her and she buried her face in her hands and wept. 

_John had been right all along!_

********************** 

As soon as Chris entered the apartment she checked on John. He had rested comfortably when she left, but now he slept fitfully, tossing his head from side to side, his entire body twitching sporadically. Mournful moans sounded deep in his throat as if he were in pain. Did Voytek disturb her brother's rest? Or did John's own guilt torment his soul? 

She dragged a large comfortable chair close to the bed and sat, watching her brother. Not knowing what else to do, she sang to him, old lullabies she had sung for her daughters when they were babies and too ill to sleep. The soft, rhythmic sounds seemed to ease his unrest. 

John was older by twenty years and never in her wildest imaginings had Chris thought she'd be caring for him almost as if he were a child. He had always been so capable and strong, so _adult_. Chris' arrival was unexpected so many years after their parents had given up hope of ever having another child. By the time of her birth, John was away at college and as Chris grew up, John struggled to establish himself as an architect. Then he married Leslie, and they traveled extensively abroad. Finally, as they settled in San Francisco to start their architect and planning firm, Chris had begun her own life in Connecticut with Terence Delaney. 

A continent divided them as well as a generation, and after the death of their parents, their paths rarely crossed. They had kept in touch by phone, and John always sounded well and cheerful, assuring her he was fine. Except he wasn't fine and hadn't been in a long time . . . 

No, that wasn't true anymore, had never been true. Chris closed her eyes and massaged her temples. She had to reevaluate everything she had come to believe about her brother. John was not mad or delusional or incapable of accepting his wife's death. Everything he said was true. All John needed was to be believed. Chris could do that for him now. 

John kept Heidenreich's work on the nightstand. She reached out and tentatively ran her fingers over the red and gold embossed V on the cover. Inside, she would learn the legend of the man--the _creature_ who accosted her tonight. Chris picked up the book and lay it in her lap, the pages falling open to a well-marked passage. 

A long time later, Chris had read every word about "The Golden Vampire" and much of what Heidenreich had written on vampires in general. Her eyes felt grainy and swollen, and she slowly rubbed them. The rest would have to wait for another day. She closed the book. 

She meant to put it away and get ready for bed, but she was too tired to move just yet. Her eyes remained closed and before long she felt herself drift off. Immediately, she dreamed. 

_Anton called to her in his low, throbbing voice, "Come to me, Christina." _

She stood in complete darkness, moving her hands back and forth in front of her. She didn't want to go to him--yet, a part of her craved to be held in his arms once again. Suddenly, flashes of dry lightning relieved the blackness and she caught glimpses of the barren wasteland around her, silhouettes of skeletal trees and dead things_ hanging from their limbs. She looked down and saw she was dressed in a long sleeved night rail frothy with tattered lace. When she looked up again, she saw him on a far hill, the glitter of his white gold hair dazzling in the occasional light. She saw the deep sky blue of his eyes although it should have been impossible at this distance. _

He started toward her, and with each flash of light he swept closer. His black cape, satin lining as red as blood, billowed out behind like the wings of an angry raven. Then he was upon her, his cape shrouding them from the strobic light. His fingers ran through her hair as it moved the long locks out of the way. Delicately, he stroked her cheek, her throat, her shoulder. His eyes changed from blue to black as he whispered her name "Christina!" over and over, a litany that burned her heart and damned her soul. She closed her eyes and lay her head on his shoulder, offering herself to him. He lay one finger on the pulse in her neck. 

"Do you give yourself freely and of your own will?" His whispered words sounded of honey over crushed glass. 

"Yes, Anton," she answered with no hesitation or uncertainty. 

"You are mine," he swore and lowered his lips to her pulsing vein . . . 

Chris moaned and surged forward, responding to the exquisite ache of unfulfillment. When she became fully awake, she found her rigid body had moved to the edge of her seat, straining upward. Her head tilted to the side as if it lay on someone's shoulder. The collar of her blouse had been pushed aside, exposing her carotid vein. She drew in one gulping breath as if she hadn't breathed at all for the duration of the dream. 

The intensity of the dream frightened her. Dreaming of Anton Voytek wasn't a surprise after their encounter and reading Heidenreich's book. Normally, her dreams were never this vivid or clear. She remembered every detail as if it had really happened. Her dreams were usually muddled collages of disjointed images that made no sense in the light of day. This dream had made too much sense. 

Chris retrieved the book from the floor where it had fallen from her lap. She carefully placed it back on the nightstand just as John had left it. She glanced at her watch--only a couple of hours until dawn. Undisturbed, John slept peacefully. Chris turned out the light and went to her bedroom. She changed into a nightshirt, crept into bed, and didn't fall asleep until sunrise. 

********************** 

"I'm sorry for what I put you through last night, Chrissy," John apologized when Chris walked into the living room. It was after one in the afternoon. 

Now was her chance to tell John everything that happened to her the evening before. She opened her mouth and surprised herself by saying, "I didn't mean to sleep this late. I'll fix us some lunch." 

"I grabbed a sandwich earlier. Don't fuss over me. I can fend for myself." 

She wanted to remind him of the condition she'd found him in when she arrived in San Francisco six months ago, but she merely frowned. 

"I know what you're thinking." He sighed. "Harry's death made me realize how much time we spent trying to locate Voytek. Made me face my own mortality and Voytek's immortality. Leslie's gone, Harry's gone, and I'll be gone one day, but Voytek will live forever. He has resources Harry and I could never dream of having. It--overwhelmed me, Chrissy." 

"You're still looking for him--" she began. 

"And I'll never stop!" John stood and paced a few steps away. "I've come to realize I have to take care of myself. I have to stay alive long enough to drive a stake through his heart." 

Chris flinched in spite of herself and was grateful John had turned his back to her. She said nothing. The moment to tell him had come and gone. If she confessed now, he would wonder why she had delayed. She couldn't explain her hesitancy even to herself. Did Voytek still control some part of her mind? 

"He's out there somewhere, waiting for me to try again," John growled and swept the stack of papers from the couch to the floor. "He has to be feeding, but I can't find any mention of murder victims that died the same way as Leslie." 

"Perhaps he's gone underground," Chris suggested then went into the kitchen. 

She opened the refrigerator and decided on orange juice. When she turned with the bottle in hand, John was only a few feet from her. He watched her without blinking. "Why do you say that, Chris?" 

She didn't know where the thought came from. It was the first time she had offered any encouraging remark. In the beginning, she tried to reason with him. Lately, she had remained silent during John's rants. Chris stalled while getting a glass and pouring out juice. Her thoughts clarified. 

"Well," she began as she set the bottle back in the refrigerator. "You said the cop-turned-priest lured him into a confrontation in the basement of the Heidecker estate. He was trapped there for nearly forty years. What if he decided to inter himself intentionally so he wouldn't leave a trail of mutilations that would lead you to him?" 

John stared at her, his dark eyes almost as black as Anton's in the throes of bloodlust. He nodded. "His art treasures had been taken from him. We found all the coffins we knew existed and rendered them unusuable. It might have been his only choice. Harry and I never considered that possibility." 

John gave her a strange little smile then returned to the living room. Chris let out a deep breath. Why had she misled him? She _knew_ Anton had not gone underground for the past twenty years. She tried to tell herself she was doing it for John's sake. John needed to let go of the past. Anton was too powerful for her brother to attempt to destroy. 

Chris wasn't sure if that was the true reason or not. She poured the orange juice down the sink. 

John called to her. "I'm going out for a while." 

Chris hurried to the living room. "Where are you going?" 

"For a walk. In the park. I'll be back soon." He shrugged into his jacket and stepped close to her. He brushed her long hair back off her shoulders and rested his hands there. He placed a kiss on her forehead. "Don't worry, Chris. I'll be all right." 

As soon as John had gone, Chris went over the notes she had made while reading through the police files. She ran across the list of artworks found in the ruins of the Heidecker estate. In twenty years, John hadn't been able to find any trace of Voytek using his name, "The Golden Vampire", or mysteriously mutilated victims. The artworks were tangible objects and could be traced more easily. She felt if Anton had exacted his revenge against John because of them, he wouldn't give them up so easily. 

Chris logged onto the internet and began her search. By the time John returned a few hours later, she had found references to several of the paintings. Later, after they had dinner and John had gone to bed, Chris settled in front of the computer for a long night of research. 

Later, in the wee hours of the morning, Chris rubbed her tired eyes. She leaned back in her chair and put her feet up. She had gone through a third of the list, but it was becoming obvious Anton had begun to "collect" his treasures again. She allowed herself the luxury of giving in to sleep and immediately began to dream. 

_Anton called to her again, "Come to me, Christina." _

She stood in complete darkness until lightning limned the roiling black clouds as they raced across the sky. She wore the same ancient lacy night rail, but this time she stood on the deck of a full-rigged ship, gently rolling with the movement of the water. Three tall masts rose into the black sky, draped with the rotted remains of their rigging. She looked up and found him in the crowsnest, white gold hair shimmering in the flashes of light. 

He fell towards her, his cape fluttering in the wind. He swooped down upon her and they fell to the rough wooden deck, his cape settling over them as she lay pinned beneath his body. His eyes changed from blue to black and he caressed her, whispering her name over and over. Then he lay one finger on the pulse at her throat and they spoke the same words: 

"Do you give yourself freely and of your own will?" 

"Yes, Anton." 

"You are mine!" And he claimed her once more. 

Chris' hand flew to her throat. Her body was stiff as if she reached for something unattainable. This dream had seemed as real as the other. When Anton reached into her mind to enthrall her he had created, or perhaps resurrected, a bond between them. Whatever the reason, Chris knew she didn't dare sleep from dusk to dawn unless she wanted to experience these dreams again. 

Chris made sure she didn't sleep again until after sunrise.


	4. Act III

**Act III**

  
  


Chris followed the directions and carefully measured each ingredient before pouring it into the bowl. She was supposed to stir until a stiff dough was formed. She hadn't made cookies since her daughters were teenagers, but she had to do something to keep busy and awake. It was only midnight, but she intended to do a lot of baking this night to keep herself occupied. 

She hadn't read all of John's books, but she'd had enough of vampire lore for now. All the stories and legends had become a jumble in her mind. And she had searched the internet as thoroughly as she knew how. She'd traced most of the items on the list of paintings to museums and public galleries. The rest, she assumed, had gone into private collections. 

Of the ones she tracked down, she wasn't surprised to find that half had disappeared again over the past two decades. Slowly, one by one, each had been stolen in the middle of the night. A few of the thefts had made national headlines, but most were relegated to a couple of paragraphs in the back sections. All had occurred between 1979 and 1994. Something had happened five years ago. But what? Chris had no idea. 

Her arm had grown tired and she had yet to add the chocolate chips. She tore open the bag, poured some in, and stirred again. 

During the past few weeks, she struggled to adjust to her new sleeping schedule. It didn't matter how long she slept in the daytime--and she made sure she got at least eight hours--she always felt drowsy in the hours just before dawn. 

Unfortunately, she had dozed off and dreamed a few more times. Anton beckoned to her from the ruins of a derelict castle, on the windswept sand of a deserted beach, in the bowels of an ice cavern...as if he would find her no matter where she tried to hide. She resisted but, ultimately, he came to her and claimed her with the same words: 

_"Do you give yourself freely and of your own will?" _

"Yes, Anton." 

"You are mine." 

The dreams ended at the same moment as the others, when he placed his lips on her throat. She always awoke straining toward him but...he wasn't there. 

While her vivid imagination supplied the various gothic backdrops, Chris recognized she was having the same dream over and over. Fascinated by what he was and physically drawn to him, she would not--could not for John's sake-- give herself up to him. 

Yet, she acknowledged that if Anton truly wanted her, nothing would stop him. And she reluctantly admitted part of her wouldn't want him to be stopped. Anton had reached into the primal core of her _self_, ripped it open and laid it bare, allowing hidden needs and emotions to surface. In the end, he had put them back and resealed the core but, like broken pottery mended with glue, she would never be the same again. He had touched something inside of her that could never be untouched. 

As she stirred the last of the chocolate chips into the dough, Chris felt the tears slip down her cheeks. During those few moments while Anton held her enthralled, she had glimpsed a passion within herself, as well as within Anton, that she never knew existed before. And she wanted to experience it again, wanted it more than anything she had ever wanted in her life. 

Chris angrily wiped away the tears and dropped spoonfuls of dough onto the cookie sheet with more force than she intended. As much as she might desire to explore that passion, she couldn't because of John. Her brother had already lost his wife to Anton; he wouldn't survive losing his sister to the vampire as well. 

She took more care with the dough as she flattened and rounded each spoonful. She tried to concentrate on making them uniform in size and shape, to keep her thoughts away from Anton. He consumed too much of her life now, just as he had consumed John's twenty years ago. 

As she finished shaping the last cookie, the hair on the back of her neck prickled, and she had the feeling that someone else was in the apartment. She dropped the spoon with a clatter that sounded like an explosion and made her heart race. 

"John? Is that you?" she called out nervously. 

When he didn't answer, Chris crept silently from the kitchen to the living room. The drapes were closed over the sliding glass doors to the terrace, but a dim light filtered through. She stood a moment, watching and listening. She heard nothing and saw no movement. 

Chris hurried to John's bedroom and cautiously opened the door. He lay in his bed, fast asleep. She shut the door and returned to the living room. As she moved toward the middle of the room, the feeling became stronger that someone uninvited was near. Raw instinct led her to the drapes, and she pulled them fully open with one strong tug on the cord. 

Anton stood in the center of the terrace. The high winds whipped his white gold hair and the red-lined cape he wore. Chris gasped and clutched the small silver cross at her throat. John had given it to her months ago, but she only started wearing it after her encounter at the coffeehouse. She looked down at her gown and realized it bore a passing resemblance to the lacy night rail in her dreams: white, long-sleeved, lace-trimmed. 

Stepping back, she searched the dark sky behind him, almost expecting quick flashes of light even though lightning was a rare occurrence in San Francisco. She almost laughed in relief when nothing changed the night sky. Perhaps tonight wasn't the night he came to claim her after all. 

The disappointment she felt disgusted her. 

If the legends were true, he couldn't enter the apartment unless she invited him in. If they weren't true, she supposed he would have already let himself in. Slowly, she approached the sliding doors and flung them open. A cold burst of air slithered around her and made her shiver. She backed up a few paces, still holding the silver cross in her trembling fingers. 

"Good evening, Christina," he greeted her warmly. 

"What do you want?" she cried out much too loudly. She glanced back, toward John's room, and prayed she hadn't awakened him. 

"Your brother sleeps peacefully," Anton assured her. "He won't awaken while I'm here." 

"What have you done?" Fear sliced through her. She hadn't check John closely. What if Anton didn't need permission to enter. What if--? 

"John sleeps, Christina, that's all. A small enthrallment, to ensure he won't awaken and find me here. He hasn't the stamina for a confrontation yet." 

"He never will. He-He's been ill. Please, leave him alone. Please." 

Anton laughed sorrowfully. "I no longer have any interest in John. Once, he would have made a formidable opponent, but--" He shrugged. "Many years have passed, and we've both changed. He's not the man he once was and I--I'm not the creature I once was either." 

"Then go away and leave us alone!" Although she knew it wouldn't do any good, she had to try. John needed peace. If she could make Anton go away and promise never to bother them again, then she could tell John everything. 

"John is a man obsessed. He'll never find the peace he deserves until he rests beside his beloved Leslie." 

"No, I don't believe it! John needs peace in his life, not in death. He needs it now, and the only way is to make sure you don't enter his life again." 

"He's had twenty years without me in his life. What did he do with them?" Anton extended his hand toward her. "Come to me, Christina." 

Chris felt the blood drain from her face. He spoke the same words from the dream. "No! And I won't invite you in, so you can't claim me." 

"You have the visions, too?" he asked, and she believed he was truly puzzled. 

She nodded. "Dreams, at night when I doze. I've been sleeping during the day. I-I thought you were sending them to me. What does it mean?" 

"No, they come to me at night, too, at odd times. I have no idea what the meaning is behind them. Perhaps that we are connected in some way." He held out his hand to her again. "Come _with_ me, Christina, only for a while, and I'll show you things you've never seen before." 

As in the dreams, she longed to go to him, but she resisted. She couldn't give herself over to his enchantment. 

"No enchantment. I gave you my word I would not enthrall you again. Only for a little while. I'll have you back well before dawn--you have my word on that, too." He laughed. 

What could it hurt? Chris knew she shouldn't go, but his allure was too great and she was too weak. If only she had John's moral strength and commitment. She stepped up to the sliding door. She was safe as long as she didn't travel across the threshhold. Once she stepped over, she would be at his mercy. 

"And you won't..." 

He smiled wickedly. "I've already fed this evening." 

Oh, she shouldn't! But she couldn't resist him. It had nothing to do with enchantment or enthrallment and everything to do with a wildness in her heart that she had stifled far too long. 

At seventeen, she had married Terence after a whirlwind romance of only a few months when everyone, including John, said she was too young and it wouldn't last. She'd proved them wrong, divorcing after 23 years and only because Terence had lost his sense of wonder and adventure. He'd let his work consume him until he had no time for her or their daughters. 

She couldn't bear the thought of living in stagnation as she impatiently waited for Terence to come to his senses and resume their _life_ together. Now, she waited for her brother to regain his emotional and physical health and, really, what was the difference? 

Chris stepped across the threshhold and left the practical and sensible Rawlins behind. 

Anton pulled her close to him, enfolding her in his arms. She stiffened with fear, praying she hadn't made the wrong choice. She had no defense against him except the tiny silver cross that hung at her throat. Would it save her if he decided to claim her? Why had she chosen to accept the word of a _vampire_? 

"Why indeed?" he whispered into her ear, his warm breath sending a tremor throughout her body. He wrapped his cape around her against the chill of the wind and they rose into the night. 

********************** 

Chris had squeezed her eyes shut the moment her feet left the terrace and her arms tightened around his neck. She had made a horrible mistake! She opened her mouth to beg him to take her back, but he spoke instead. She had to strain to hear him over the sound of the wind rushing past her ears. 

"Look, Christina, the city as few humans ever see it!" 

She shook her head against his shoulder. "I-I can't. Please, Anton--" 

He made a sound of soft laughter. Chris clung to him as they rode the wind even though Anton held her securely. She only feared opening her eyes and looking down, seeing nothing between them and the city below. Finally, he spoke to her again. 

"I've given you my word on several counts. Now, I need yours. Will you promise you won't reveal what you are about to see?" 

At that moment, Chris would have promised anything to be safely on earth again. "Yes, I promise!" 

"Especially John." 

"What is it?" 

"My lair." 

Why did he trust her enough to show her where he slept? she wondered as their flight slowed. How could he risk his very existence by telling her his secret? 

He landed them so smoothly that she wouldn't have known except she suddenly felt a solid surface beneath her feet. She didn't let him go immediately. She opened her eyes first. They stood on the circular flat roof of a building. When she saw they were not precariously balanced on some precipice, she disengaged her arms from his neck. She walked to the edge, protected by the thick concrete wall extending beyond the roof by four feet. The structure was surrounded by trees and wild growth of bushes and tall grasses as far as Chris could see. 

"What is this place?" 

"At one time is was used for water storage, but it had been abandoned for decades when I found it. I had it converted into a house. The wall is concrete, impenetrable by light since there are no windows. There is one door at ground level and this entrance." He indicated the sheltered door in the center of the roof. "Of course there are numerous hidden exits." 

He opened the door and stepped into the stairwell, holding out his hand. 

Chris allowed him to lead her down the stairs and into his dwelling place. The decor was rich in dark woods, expensive antique furniture, and could have been found in any fashionable home. The only clue to its unconventional beginnings was the curved outer wall of each room. One half of the second floor was given over to a gallery. A half dozen paintings hung along the convex wall, each with it's own spotlight. Anton stood to the side as she stepped closer to the first one. _The Lady and the Swan_ by da Vinci. The next was Monet, then van Gogh, Matisse, Degas, and Botticelli. The Donatello, the Rembrandt, and others had already been returned to their rightful owners. 

Chris turned and looked at Anton, the first time she had a chance to study him since seeing him seated across the room in the coffeehouse. His pale white-gold hair was windblown, but still fell in thick waves from the crown of his head to below shirt-collar length. Dark gold brows arched over deep blue eyes that would be mesmerizing on any mortal man. His face was broad with delicately structured cheekbones, aquiline nose, and full sensual lips. John had described him as appearing to be 35 to 40 years of age, but to her he looked older. She didn't think vampires aged. 

"We don't. Exposure to the sun will age us somewhat and it takes decades to recover." 

"I do wish you wouldn't read my mind. It's as if I have no privacy." 

He smiled. "I hear your thoughts much clearer than most humans." 

"You don't consider yourself human at all, do you?" She shivered, wrapping her arms around herself, and suddenly realized it was almost as chilly in his dwelling as outside. "The paintings should be in a controlled atmosphere." 

"You're correct, of course." He stepped toward her, removing his cape in a dramatic swirl, and placed it around her shoulders. He drew the edges together at her breast. "I'm sorry, Christina. Extreme temperatures don't affect me and I forgot you would need warmth." 

"You were once human, weren't you?" she persisted. 

"Yes, over seven hundred years ago. Too long to remember what it was like." He shook his head. "Humans are too fragile." 

"Well, we can't all be vampires or there would be no one to feed on." 

He laughed and his hands fell away from her. She turned back to the da Vinci. 

"She's beautiful, isn't she?" he said softly. Anton moved close behind her, so close that Chris could feel him almost but not quite touching her. 

"When will you return them?" 

"Soon. As you said, they should be in a controlled environment, protected from temperature changes and humidity. She will be the last to go." 

She turned around to face him. "What made you change your mind about keeping them?" 

He scowled and paced away from her. "_The Lady and the Swan_ was in a private home. A few months before I had been invited inside under a pretense, so it was easy to enter that night. She was closed away in an otherwise empty vault, mounted on the wall, a light over her. There was a comfortable leather chair with a small table beside it. On the table was a open carafe of wine and one glass." He paced a few steps more then stopped directly in front of the da Vinci. "I sat in the chair and even poured some of the wine in the glass. I took a sip. I hadn't tasted wine since I became vampire. I don't need food or drink, but I can tolerate them in small measures. I thought about the man who owned her, how he kept her for his own private amusement instead of sharing her with the world." 

"But you took her anyway," Chris wrapped the cape closer around her. She could smell him in the fabric, a sweet musky odor uniquely his. 

"She is my favorite. Yes, I took her," he said passionately, as if she were a real woman he had made love to. "But having her wasn't as satisfying as it should have been. I brought her here and hung her with all the others. And then I saw my own chair sitting in the middle of the room, saw it in the same light as the other one. There was no difference. I was as selfish and greedy as any human." 

He remained silent for a long time, staring at the painting. His eyes turned black, and a shiver trailed up Chris' spine but not from the cold. 

"Then you decided to return them?" she prompted softly. 

"No!" he said sharply. He closed his eyes and when he opened them again, they had returned to their normal celestial blue. "I decided to die."


	5. Act IV

**Act IV**

  
  


Anton's revelation didn't surprise her. The pieces of the puzzle had already fallen into place somewhere in the back of her mind. What struck her was the irony of his situation. Throughout centuries he had fed on human life, but a mere painting had caused him to reevaluate his existence and find it lacking. 

"A mere painting," he murmured. "I'm sorry, Christina. I've tried to shield your thoughts, but some of them are so strong they break through." 

"I'm no connoisseur of art. To me, they're merely paint on canvas," Chris confessed apologetically. "Their only worth is in their antiquity. At age two, my daughters could produce better drawings with crayons than Picasso." 

He laughed. "Oh, I agree. I never bothered with Picasso." Then he sobered and swept his arms wide, encompassing all of the paintings. "I used the paintings as a substitute for everything I'd lost of my former life. They had become my companions and my children. Although they never wavered and never censured and were more loyal and constant than real friends or family could ever be, it wasn't enough." 

Chris understood completely. There had been a time when she let the collection of "things" fill the void in her life. All the empty, aching hours left by her daughters when they reached an age and had lives of their own. She should have been able to turn to her husband, but he was already beyond her reach. After the divorce, she had rid herself of all her collections except the Lalique crystal. 

Anton smiled, as if he heard her thoughts but politely didn't remark upon them. 

"As soon as I fully realized the futility of my existence, even with my treasures, I saw no reason to go on. Just before dawn, I took the da Vinci to the roof. I wanted her to be the last thing I saw before I died for the final time." 

He moved closer to the painting and ran his fingers along the curve of her cheek. Unreasonably, Chris felt a stab of jealousy, remembering how he'd done the same to her in front of the coffeehouse. At the time, fear had prevented her from enjoying the sensation of his touch. She wasn't afraid now. 

He glanced at her knowingly and Chris blushed, embarrassed that he'd read these thoughts in particular. 

"The sun rose as it invariably does and I felt the first rays of its burning light. My flesh began to smoke and the pain became excruciating. I wondered how the end would come--would I suddenly cease to exist? or face the white light of judgement? or go straight to hell because of the abomination I had become?" 

"If you are an abomination, isn't it of your own making?" 

"I didn't ask to be what I am!" he snapped. "_She_ stole my life." 

"But you've chosen the path you take," Chris observed quietly. "Isn't the decision of how you live your life, whatever you may be, yours?" 

"You know _nothing_ of the paths I've walked," he defended himself fiercely, "or the decisions I've been forced to make." 

"I know what you did to John." 

Anton strode toward her, his eyes as hard as chips of ice. 

"It will be dawn soon. I'll take you back now." He held out a hand to remove the cape, but Chris swept out of his reach. 

"You haven't finished--" 

"Of course." He drew in a deep breath and when he continued his voice was more serene. "I'm afraid the denoument may be somewhat anti-climactic. It wasn't a perfect moment when the path to redemption became crystal clear. It was simply...the painting. It suddenly occurred to me that if I died and turned to dust to be borne away on the wind, _she_ would be left to the elements. There would be no one to carry her inside or take her away to a museum for all to enjoy her beauty. The weather would eventually reduce her to dust, also. With the last of my strength, I dragged us both inside and shut the door. I was so weak and in pure agony, I fell down the steps and didn't move for days." 

Chris took his hand in hers and squeezed. "You didn't really want to die." 

"No, I didn't. In the end, I was too afraid of what awaits on the other side." 

"The painting, she reminds you of the woman who made you into what you are." 

"Yes, she does, but that's another story for another time." He lifted her hand and pressed her palm against his lips. "It's been nearly five years and I haven't completely healed from the damage of the sun. I'm not sure if I ever will. Yes, I look older now than when I first met John. Come, Christina. It's time to take you home." 

********************** 

Several nights later, Chris felt him coming for her. She felt his presence in her soul grow stronger and nearer. She dressed more sensibly in a windsuit, thick socks, and jogging shoes. She braided her shoulder-length hair to keep the wind from tangling it. She waited on the terrace. 

She never saw his arrival. Suddenly, he stood behind her, securely enfolding her in his arms. He bent and kissed her cheek then fingered the nylon material of her suit. 

"The practical Rawlins?" he questioned with amusement. Then his voice grew huskier, "I liked the nightgown much better." 

Words a lover would say, she thought, and didn't care if he heard it or not. She reveled in his attention, his touch, his scent. There were other questions to be answered, more stories to be told, but for the moment she allowed herself to enjoy the feel of his arms around her. She lay her hands over his and leaned back against him. 

"Don't enthrall John again. He had a terrible headache the next day. I don't want him to suffer anymore." 

"What if he awakens and finds you gone?" 

"I'll think of some excuse." 

"As you wish. Are you ready, Christina?" 

She turned, wrapping her arms around his neck, and closed her eyes. "Yes, Anton," she whispered, "I'm ready." 

Again, she couldn't bring herself to watch as they flew over the city and beyond to his secluded lair. Inside, he bypassed the gallery and took her to the lower level. 

"A kitchen?" Chris asked incredulously as she surveyed the room stocked with every modern appliance imaginable--brightly new and unused. 

"The contractors would have been suspicious if I'd specified no kitchen or dining area." He led her into the living room filled tastefully with antique Victorian furniture and lighted with dozens of white pillar candles. "They thought it strange enough when I insisted on no windows and only met with them at night." 

"Where do you sleep?" 

Anton looked at her sharply and perhaps scanned her mind. Chris met his eyes. She had no ulterior motive and nothing to hide. She asked out of curiosity. 

He visibly relaxed. "There's a bedroom upstairs and it would suffice, but I had a basement built. I seem to rest better enclosed in the earth." 

"Do you sleep in a coffin?" 

"Yes." He smiled. "They're really quite comfortable." 

Chris should have found the comment appalling. Instead, their conversation seemed remarkably normal. 

"Please, sit. I'll be back in a moment." 

He disappeared toward the kitchen and Chris sat on the sofa. When he returned he carried a bottle of wine and one glass. He poured some of the blood red liquid into the glass and handed it to her. 

"I have a fully stocked wine cellar, too. When I bought this place, I had thoughts of entering society again and entertaining." He set the bottle on one of the doily covered tables. "But I've changed my mind about that." 

Chris sipped the wine, then cleared her throat. "Can you tell me about Leslie now?" 

He had removed the cape earlier. He was dressed in white shirt, black trousers, and vest. He tugged on the vest self-consciously and sat in a wing-backed chair close to her. 

"Leslie," he said thoughtfully. "When I confronted you at the coffeehouse, I only meant to let you know I existed, just as John claimed I did. I misled you about Leslie. At the time, I only wanted to ease John's mind concerning his wife. But I can only give you the truth now. I never enthralled Leslie. She came to me--" 

"--freely and of her own will," Chris finished for him. "Poor John." 

"I admit I went to Leslie that night to enthrall her, to drain her, to make her vampire. I wanted John to feel the vengeance of my betrayal, as I had felt his. I didn't have to. She wanted it, Christina. At the last moment, she knew what I was, and she begged for eternal life and youth and beauty. Leslie was a very beautiful woman, and she was very afraid of growing old." 

Chris set the glass aside before she dropped it. Her hands shook and tears mercilessly stung her eyes. It could easily be a tale he spun, to entrap her further, but she felt the vibrations of truth from him. At that moment, she knew he couldn't lie to her for if he did she would know it. Their connection grew stronger by the hour. 

"I feel it, too," he said softly. "I don't understand it. I have never felt a bond with anyone such as we share." 

"John believes--" 

"Of course, John believes I forced Leslie against her will. If he had any idea of what Leslie truly felt, he has pushed it back into the darkest recesses of his mind. It would be the only way he could live with himself and his memories of her." 

Chris nodded and wiped at her eyes. "I can't tell him." 

"No, he's not strong enough. Leave him with the memories he does have of her. Let him blame me and hate me. It's the only way he can survive." 

She nodded again. "There is one more thing, the private detective, Armis." 

He laughed. "You want me to explain away every death I've ever caused. That would take days." 

"No, only the ones I know about." 

"Armis was a liar and a cheat. He beat his wife on a regular basis. Years before he retired from the police force, he murdered a fellow officer and made it look like a suicide." Anton moved from the chair to sit beside her. "When I drain them, I relive every moment of their lives. Sometimes, I can hardly bear it." 

Chris felt that truth in him, too, and felt his pain. So much pain to bear after centuries of draining victims and living their entire sordid lives in mere minutes. Willingly, she went into his arms, _freely and of her own will_. The words spun in her mind and her heart. He claimed her with a kiss and when his mouth marked a trail to her throat, her pulse throbbing against his lips, she tossed back her head. 

He kept her close, caressing her with his lips, and whispered, "Remember, Christina, I can read your thoughts and your heart. You don't crave to be what I am. You only want to experience wonder and adventure again. I can offer you a more mundane pleasure this night, but I won't make you vampire." 

Chris nodded and blissfully accepted what he offered. 

********************** 

Chris slid the terrace doors together and rested her forehead against the cool glass. Anton knew what was in her heart just as she knew his. She had no desire to live forever, to possess the powers he demonstrated. All she wanted was what she had tonight, to share a few hours of pleasure with a handsome, exciting, exhilarating man. Although she had tasted no more of the wine, Chris' mind reeled in a giddy, drunken splendor. She felt wild and warm, womanly and wonderful. She knew, as a woman of the nineties, she shouldn't let a mere man dictate her feeling of worth. Then she almost laughed out loud. Anton was no _mere man_. She locked the doors. 

"Where have you been, Chrissy?" 

Startled by John's quiet question, Chris' heart pounded in her chest. She drew a deep breath before turning to face him. John stood in the doorway to the hall, a book in his hand. Heidenreich, she guessed. He'd read the passage concerning "The Golden Vampire" until he had it memorized. Still, he read it again and again, hoping to find some hidden meaning he might have missed all these years. Yes, John was a man obsessed, as Anton had pointed out. 

"Outside, looking at the stars." She spoke the truth, but not the whole truth. She had gazed at the stars earlier but from the rooftop of Anton's lair. 

John stepped from the shadows into the edge of the pool of dim light coming through the terrace doors. 

"No, Chrissy, you weren't there. I've been awake for hours. I searched the apartment, including the terrace. _You weren't there_." He walked around the sofa, until he stood completely bathed in the light. His eyes were huge and luminous and haunted with sorrow. "You weren't on the terrace, yet you came in through the terrace doors." 

"It's not what you think!" she blurted out, but of course it was exactly what he thought. How could she have been so stupid as not to foresee this? She should have had Anton leave her downstairs so she could come in the front door. Then she could have made some plausible excuse about taking a walk. 

"What do I think, Chrissy?" He didn't wait for a reply. "Do I think you can scale the side of a building or...fly? 

He laughed, a strange half-mad sound, and Chris wished with all her heart it hadn't come to this, in this way. 

"No, of course not." Her mind scrambled for an acceptable excuse, but John didn't give her time. 

"Or do I think Voytek has gotten to you?" he ground out with such ferocity that spittle flew from his lips. 

"John, please--" 

"I've looked into his eyes, Chrissy. I've seen the depths of hell. I know what he is capable of." 

"He's explained everything, John--" 

"Did he explain about Leslie?" He shouted and crossed the room to her in hard, angry steps. He gripped her shoulders and shook her, the book he held between thumb and forefinger pressed against her collar bone. "Did he tell you how he conned his way into our home on a pretext of friendship, then savaged her?" 

Tears flooded her eyes as she let him release his anger. When he had gotten over the worst of his anger and calmed down, then she would tell him everything that Anton had told her. Everything, including Leslie. It would either strengthen him or destroy him. Either way, he had to know. 

"I wanted to tell you in my own way, after I learned everything I could from Anton." 

"You believe what that piece of filth would tell you?" 

"John, please." Chris cradled his face in her hands "There is some kind of bond between us. I can't explain it." 

"He has you under his spell." 

"No, John--" 

"He put Leslie under a spell, as well as Nicole and Andrea. He would have had me, too, if Harry hadn't saved me." 

"No, John, listen. It isn't like that." 

"He is that powerful, isn't he? First my wife, now my sister. He has ripped away everyone that had any meaning to me." John's hands loosened and fell from her. He held the book in one hand and ran the other over the leather cover. Chris saw it wasn't Heidenreich at all; it was a Bible. He opened it and turned a few pages. "I won't let him have you, too." 

"He doesn't have me. Not like that." She drew him closer and kissed him. "He won't do to me what he did to Leslie. I promise you." 

John smiled a little and patted her cheek. "I know you think so, but you don't have control over your thoughts. Voytek does." 

"That's not true. Please listen to me--" 

"I can't. That way lies madness." He turned a few more pages of the Bible. "I love you, Chrissy." 

"I love you too, John." She put her arms around him and hugged him. "I do love you. I'll tell you everything Anton has told me. You'll understand it, too." 

"Will I?" He held her tightly and lay her head on his shoulder. Chris' heart lightened a little. Perhaps he was willing to listen, after all. 

"Yes, you will," she assured him and pulled away. She started to walk past him, but he caught hold of her arm and swung her around again. "What, John?" 

Tears filled his eyes and trailed down his cheeks. He dropped the Bible and his left arm wrapped around her, holding her in a vise-like grip against him. She hugged him again, then tried to back away. "What is it, John?" 

He tightened his hold on her and rested his head against hers. 

"I knew. The night we went to the cemetery and you went for a drive. When you returned, I knew you had been with him. I could smell him on you," he said in disgust. "The smell of damnation and...desire. The same pungent, profane odor that surrounded my Leslie as she lay in that coffin. I can't destroy Voytek. I'm too old and tired. I couldn't save Leslie, but I can save you. Oh dear God in heaven, help me!" 

Chris caught sight of the Bible lying open on the floor. The inside pages had been hollowed out, as if to hide something. "No, John!" she cried out as his right arm slid between them. 

"I love you, Chrissy. Forgive me." 

She struggled to get free and a shot rang out. She stiffened as a terrible pain ripped through her abdomen. Unable to speak or move, she slipped from her brother's arms to the floor. Another shot sounded as darkness clouded her vision, threatening to overwhelm her senses, but she fought to stay conscious a few moments more. 

_Come to me, Anton..._

The shattering of glass was the answer to her invitation, and the darkness consumed and claimed her as she lay dying.


	6. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

  
  


The Vampire watched her as she slept the sleep of the undead. In all of the centuries of his existence, he had passed the Dark Gift to few others. This one time he regretted the most while hoping it would be the most successful. He wouldn't know if he had reached her in time until she awoke--_if_ she awoke. It was well past sunset, but oversleeping wasn't unusual in a fledgling. 

As the last moments of her life slipped away, he had drained her, drop by drop, then slashed his wrist for her to feed on his immortal blood. She had suckled greedily, like the newborn that she was, but she would remember nothing of the transference. She would awaken with a hunger like no other in her experience; yet she wouldn't know what her body craved. 

He had brought her to his lair, removed her torn and stained clothing, and tenderly dressed her in the nightgown she had worn the second time he had seen her. He watched over her the rest of the night. When dawn came, he lay beside her and held her close. Even in his sleep, he was aware of her and was comforted by her presence. 

He had emerged during twilight, left and returned quickly, having fed on one and bled another into a winebottle. Neither was dead and, enthralled, would remember anything. Long ago he learned he didn't have to kill his prey to survive. Sometimes, such as after his forty-year interment in the Heidecker basement, he couldn't control the hunger; and, sometimes, he sought the thrill of conquest. She would soon discover this exquisite pleasure. 

She moaned and stirred, and he moved to sit by her side. He would guide her, show her the way. She wouldn't be left alone to find her path as he had been. 

"John, no..." she groaned and clutched her abdomen. She relived the moments just before her death, felt again the last remnants of pain. The wound had been healed by his blood circulating through her system, but the memories would remain for a long time. 

"Christina, can you hear me?" 

When she didn't answer, he probed her mind. She was wracked with pain and fear, completely buried by her emotions. Gently, he led her into consciousness. 

Her eyelids fluttered open. "Anton?" 

"I'm here." 

"Oh, Anton, it hurts." 

She also experienced the sweet agony of transformation as his blood seared its way into her cells, changing their basic structure. 

"It won't last much longer, I promise," he said and uncorked the bottle. "Drink, Christina. It will help ease the pain." 

"Wine?" She shook her head. 

"Not wine, but it's what you hunger for." 

Her eyes widened, filled with fear. "Am I-- Did you--" 

"I had no choice! You were dying--" 

"John!" she cried out and closed her eyes. 

"He's gone. I couldn't save him." He was glad she hadn't witnessed John's suicide. The bullet in his brain had ensured he couldn't be saved. 

She took a deep, shuddering breath and looked at him. "He wouldn't have wanted you to." 

"No," he agreed and offered her the bottle. "Drink." 

He helped her to sit up and placed the bottle to her lips. She drank of the nectar that would keep her alive an eternity. 

"I'll teach you," he said softly. "I'll be with you and show you how. I wish there had been some other way." 

She lay a hand over his and nodded. "I do, too. But there's one thing I've learned and that is we have to adjust to what we are dealt in life. I have to admit, I was curious about what it would feel like to live forever. I do look forward to the wonder of it all." 

"And the adventure. There will be many adventures," he promised with a smile.   
  


**The End**


End file.
